Lucas says, "You're a happy man, Klaus."

I reply, "Yes, very happy. You too, I suppose, have a family."

He says, "No. I've always lived alone."

"Why?"

Lucas says, "I don't know. Perhaps because no one ever taught me how to love."

I say, "That is a shame. Children bring one a great deal of joy. I cannot imagine my life without them."

My brother stands up. "They're waiting for me in the car. I don't want to disturb you any longer."

I smile. "You haven't disturbed me. So, are you going to return to your adoptive country?"

"Of course. I have nothing more to do here. Farewell, Klaus."

I rise. "I will see you out."

At the garden gate I extend my hand to him. "Good-bye, sir. I hope that in the end you find your true family. I wish you much luck."

He says, "You keep in role to the very end, Klaus. Had I known you were so hard-hearted I would never have tried to find you. I sincerely regret that I came."

My brother climbs into the big black car, which starts up and drives him away.

While climbing the veranda stairs I slip on the icy steps and fall; my forehead slams into one of the stone edges, and the blood flowing into my eyes mixes with my tears. I want to remain lying here until I freeze and die but I can't; I have to take care of Mother tomorrow morning.

I enter the house and go into the bathroom; I wash my wound, disinfect it, bandage it, and then I return to the study to read my brother's manuscript.

The next morning Mother asks, "How did you hurt yourself, Klaus?"

I say, "On the stairs. I went down to make sure the gate was locked. I slipped on the ice."

Mother says, "You probably had too much to drink. You're a drunk, an incompetent, and an oaf. Haven't you made my tea yet? Unbelievable! And the house is cold too. Couldn't you get up half an hour earlier so that when I wake up I find the house warm and my tea made? You're a layabout, a good-for-nothing."

I say, "Here's the tea. In a few minutes the house will be warm, you'll see. The truth is, I didn't go to bed at all; I wrote all night long."

She says, "Again? The gentleman prefers to write all night long instead of worrying about the heat and the tea. You should write during the day, working like everyone else, not at night."

I say, "Yes, Mother. It would be better to work during the day. But at the printing press I got used to working nights. I can't help it. Anyway there are too many things to distract me during the day. There are errands to do, meals to make, but especially the street noise."

Mother says, "And there's me, isn't there? Say it, say it outright, that it's me who disturbs you. You can only write once your mother is in bed and asleep, right? You're always in such a hurry to see me off to bed at night. I understand. I've understood for quite a while."

I say, "It's true, Mother, I have to be completely alone when I write. I need silence and solitude."

She says, "As far as I can tell I'm neither very noisy nor very obtrusive. Just say the word and I won't come out of my room anymore. Once I'm in my grave I won't bother you any longer, you won't have to run errands or make the meals anymore, you'll have nothing to do but write. There at least I'll find my son Lucas, who was never mean to me, who never wished me dead and gone. I'llbe happy there, and no one will yell at me for anything."

I say, "Mother, I'm not yelling at you, and you don't disturb me in the least. I'm happy to run errands and make meals, but I need the night to write in. My poems have been our only income since I left the printing press."

She says, "Precisely. You should never have left. The printing press was a normal, reasonable job."

I say, "Mother, you know very well that I was forced to leave my job because of illness. I couldn't go on without ruining my health completely."

Mother doesn't answer; she sits down in front of the television. But she starts in again at the evening meal.

"The house is falling to bits. The downspout has come loose and the water pours out all over the garden; it'll come down inside the house soon. Weeds are taking over the garden and the rooms are all black with smoke from your cigarettes. The kitchen is yellow with it, as are the living room windows. Let's not even talk about the study or the children's room, which are both filthy with smoke. One can't even breathe in this house, not even in the garden, where the flowers have been killed off by the pestilence from inside."

I say, "Yes, Mother, calm down, Mother. There are no flowers in the garden because it's winter. I'll have the bedrooms and kitchen repainted. I'mglad you reminded me. By spring I'llhave everything repainted and the downspout fixed."

After taking her sleeping pill Mother calms down and goes to bed.

I sit in front of the television, watching a detective movie as I do every night, and drink. Then I go into my study, reread the last pages of my brother's manuscript, and begin to write.

There were always four of us at table: Father, Mother, and the two of us.

Mother sang all day long in the kitchen, the garden, and the courtyard. She also sang us to sleep at night in our room.

Father did not sing. He whistled sometimes while chopping wood for the kitchen stove, and we listened to his typewriter as he wrote in the evening and sometimes until late at night.

It was a sound as pleasant and comforting as music, as Mother's sewing machine, as the noise of the dishes being done, the singing of blackbirds in the garden, the wind in the leaves of the wild vine on the veranda or in the branches of the walnut tree in the courtyard.

The sun, the wind, night, the moon, the stars, the clouds, rain, snow-everything was a miracle. We were afraid of nothing, neither shadows nor the stories adults told among themselves. Stories of war. We were four years old.

One night Father comes home dressed in a uniform. He hangs his coat and belt on the rack near the living room door. There is a revolver holstered on his belt.

During dinner Father says, "I must go to another town. War has been declared and I've been called up."

We say, "We didn't know you were a soldier, Father. You're a journalist, not a soldier."

He says, "In wartime all men are soldiers, even journalists. Especially journalists. I have to observe and describe what happens at the front. It's called being a war correspondent."

We ask, "Why do you have a revolver?"

"Because I'm an officer. Soldiers have rifles, officers revolvers."

Father says to Mother, "Put the children to bed. I have something to talk to you about."

Mother says to us, "Off to bed. I'llcome tell you a story. Say good-bye to your father."

We kiss Father and then go to our room, but we immediately come back. We sit silently in the hallway just behind the living room door.

Father says, "I'mgoing to go live with her. It's war and I have no time to waste. I love her."

Mother asks, "What about the children?"

Father says, "She's expecting a child as well. That's why I couldn't remain silent."

"Do you want a divorce?"

"It's not the time for that. After the war we'll see. Meanwhile I'm going to recognize the baby. I might not make it back alive. One never knows."

Mother asks, "You don't love us anymore?"

Father says, "That's beside the point. I'llkeep on taking care of the boys and you. But I also love another woman. Can't you understand?"

"No. I can't understand and I don't want to."

We hear a gunshot. We open the living room door. It is Mother who has fired. She has Father's revolver in her hand. She is still shooting. Father is on the ground and Mother keeps on shooting. Beside me Lucas falls too. Mother throws down the revolver, shrieks, and kneels next to Lucas.